<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>My Henry by Fox_sox</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25836880">My Henry</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fox_sox/pseuds/Fox_sox'>Fox_sox</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>American (US) Writer RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cheating, M/M, Romantic Themes, age difference (accurate to life), author/professor emerson, good brothers, graduate student, no smut (yet), this is terrible im sorry, transcendentalist ideas, wll update tags as we go</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 04:01:47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,656</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25836880</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fox_sox/pseuds/Fox_sox</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Thoreau is fresh out of Harvard and meets the renown author and a personal idol, Emerson. They face ups and downs, death, cheating, and betrayal, but lucky for Thoreau, he's always been a romantic ;)<br/>This is for all y'all thirsty ass English majors!! I did research for this y'all</p><p>*BTW this was deleted and reposted recently because my dad told my english teacher about it and my cousins tried to find it</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ralph Waldo Emerson/Henry David Thoreau</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Welcome to hell. This is bad, but a niche genre so the bar is low<br/>I wrote this instead of actual english hw</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>A party was an unlikely place to find me. I was not one for lowlights and wine in glasses that everyone mistook as their own. Lipstick marks passed around to the soundtrack of mumbled politics. I was often a bit too, abrasive, one could say. I thought myself like Socrates. Always asking people questions in the marketplace. Everyone becomes uncomfortable when repeatedly reminded of their own oblivion and small minds. Somehow that’s not my fault. I’m quite the charmer I know.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Even so, I had myself wrapped in a soft, knit burgundy scarf and the collar of my tweed coat turned up as I shrugged off the last wisps of the chilly spring on my way to yes, a party.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Honestly it was an impossible situation. Lucy Brown was one persistent woman. She has this enthusiasm that made you wary. As if you didn’t want to see the other side of it in fear it would be just as extreme. She had watched me debate with a fellow student in the quad and instead of backing away when I stormed toward the exit she was casually blocking, she laughed. The mocking chuckle did nothing for my foul mood.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You remind me of someone ya know. With that sharp tongue of yours. Always witty,” she mused looking me up and down her hand on her chin. Calculating, considering.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hn lovely. Can you move out of my way now, you’re blocking the exit,” I retorted, feeling uncomfortable under her gaze.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well now you definitely do. Always so straight forward he is,” she reached to cup my cheek but I flinched away stepping back. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Honestly who did she think she was, I’d known her for what, a minute. Sensing my apprehension she quickly dropped her hands away from me  and held them up in surrender. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ya know...I would love to see the two of you interact, why don’t you come to a little swaray I’m having. A young, feisty young man like yourself would certainly be in his element I promise. There are many important people showing up, it would be </span>
  <em>
    <span>awfully</span>
  </em>
  <span> rude for you to refuse,” she smiled, but it was more of a challenging smirk, daring me to say no. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Look miss,” I said through clenched teeth. I just wanted to go home. The wind was biting at my cheeks and I hated this feeling of being trapped. “I don’t even know you and you certainly know nothing about me. I have to </span>
  <em>
    <span>politely</span>
  </em>
  <span> refuse your offer.” She chuckled again. My hand curled into a fist in my pocket. My witty banter and charm always got me out of situations like this dammit. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You don’t know me I suppose that’s true, but what better way to get to know me than a party! Lucy Brown, and you are..” She held out her hand for a shake expectantly her hip cocked and a smirk playing across her face. Her brown wavy hair was cropped short and bounced lightly on her shoulders. She was wearing a coat that seemed way too light for the weather, but then again nothing about ‘Lucy Brown’ said weak or bothered. I grumbled prying my frigid left hand from my pocket, </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Henry David Thoreau,” I replied with my usual confidence and bite. She raised an eyebrow, </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Why the David?” Lucy asked. I got that question a lot,</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“If I have three names why not introduce myself with them? I see no point to my middle name if I don’t acknowledge it as part of my identity. I have to give it purpose. Not to mention leaving out one name is similar to lying about the extent of one’s self,” I answered with practiced passion. Once again, quite the charmer.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“My my my,  Emerson is going to love you,” she mused mumbling to herself. I hated mumbling it was cowardly speech. Say your words with definition or not at all. “Anyhow, come to </span>
  <span>28 Cambridge Turnpike at 8:30 on Saturday. Don’t worry about booze, we got that covered,” She winked and finally stepped away from the door, “You’d better show up Thoreau.” and with those ominous words, the underlying threat left looming in the air like cigar smoke, she ran off, until there was only a streak of ruby red trench coat in the distance. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I sighed and finally walked through the exit running 15 minutes late to my planned sitting at home with chinese take out reading my latest copy of National geographic. I sighed. Maybe some interaction could do me good.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And so those events brought me to the wooden door way of a quaint brownstone in the heart of residential Concord. The mailbox read “Emerson”,  the same name Lucy had mentioned. I had a sneaking suspicion I knew who she was referring to. Literary scholars attending the party, a witty man named Emerson, in a wealthy neighborhood of Concord, the pieces were falling into place. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Well let’s see if I’m right</span>
  </em>
  <span>, </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I rang the doorbell and bit my lip April wasn’t supposed to be this cold. I heard footsteps approaching the door, a woman's heels to be exact, poised, but timid. The wind roughed my short brown hair making me shiver as the oak doors opened. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The woman was gorgeous no doubt. Big eyes and chestnut hair into a sleek bun. She looked very much like Lucy. I cleared my throat, </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hello miss, Lucy Brown invited me,” no point in formalities. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, um right, come in then. My sister does have a habit of making friends fast,” she admitted holding the door open for me and gesturing to a small coat rack to hang my jacket. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This poor coat rack. It was overrun with puffer jackets, wool sweaters, umbrellas, straw hats, and underneath I could see Lucy’s red trench coat peeking out from the mound above it. The feeble wire frame looked on the brink of falling over, it was pitiful.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She must have noticed me staring hesitantly, “How about I take that for you and put it in the bedroom, there doesn’t seem to be much more..ah room here,” she said politely.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ah yes thank you. Here” It was hard for me to part with my scarf so I kept it on instead surrendering my coat to her hands. She gave me a small smile and walked off. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I observed this house. It was cozy, with a fireplace and cream rug, leather couches and oh...the books. There was a shelf anywhere you didn’t need the space to breathe. The pleasant smell of pages and fine wine buzzed in me. The staircase seemed to be off limits so instead I walked headfirst into the crowd of graduate students, literary professors, and drunken poets. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t hard to find Lucy. Quite the opposite of her sister I met at the doorway, She was in an almost scandalously short black dress, with a glass of white wine in one hand and the other twirling her hair in an obvious attempt to flirt with the unlucky bastard in front of her. She lit up when she saw me, I must admit, not  the reaction I usually get. Her hug completely threw me off guard. She smelled like roses perfume and alcohol and her brown fluffy hair tickled my face. The  warmth  of her body pressed against mine was not uncomfortable as it had been a hot sec since someone hugged me, nay, was generally excited to see me. God that sounded depressing. An  acquired taste my mother said. That was one way to put it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Um hey Lucy,” I said pushing her away. It was too much contact. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You made it!”  She exclaimed. God couldn’t she be even a bit quieter.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And you’re drunk already I see,” Her face was flushed and her wine glass had red lipstick all over the rim.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Please it’s a Saturday night, I’m young, booze tastes good, why not!” She raised her glass and took another sip. I frowned and sighed wondering why I even bothered. Lucy turned around and went back to seducing her prey. I walked away from that mess. I needed some debate, some ideas, something to make this suffocating environment more worthwhile. I joined a conversation not so subtly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And the whole pronouns debate don't get me started! ‘They’ is meant for multiple people, it's just lazy!” The man I spotted said. He had a sleazy mustache and a dark blue tie. Fucking bigot. Perfect.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well sir,” I interrupted his swig of scotch, “How would you feel  if I called you by she/her pronouns?” I asked with a tint of challenge to  my voice. This was my element.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Well I wouldn’t like it obviously” He  sputtered with an air of warriness. Good.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And why is that?” I asked.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Cause I’m not a girl,” he said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. His  cronies agreed with chuckles. We were attracting the attention of the party. Fine.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And so  what makes they/them so different?” He opened his mouth to speak but I shut him down, “People get to choose what makes them comfortable. To impede on someone else’s divinity, their expression of self, the bravery and courage you obviously do not possess is disgusting. To say you won’t respect someone’s truth because it </span>
  <em>
    <span>inconveniences</span>
  </em>
  <span> you…..inexcusable.” People were staring left and right now.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> I was breathing heavily adrenaline and rage on overload. But a man pushed his way to the front of the crowd and started-to my amazement- clapping. He looked amused. But I knew his face from magazines and book covers. From blurbs with coffee mug stained left on professors’ desks. I knew him from his pointy nose and round glasses. This was the literary legend in the flesh. I had been right. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>party shit</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>you're still here???</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“I um...right..er yes perhaps I should be more open minded,” the man with the mustache I had corrected added. He looked uncomfortable. Good. Food for thought. Revise yourself, “I must go and refill my drink now,” he said before pushing his way through the now whispering and uninterested mass.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> I turned with a sigh. I wanted to go home. To curl up in a loose T-shirt with my cat Waldo and heckle the news. I wrapped the scarf more firmly around my neck and attempted to recall which direction the bedroom with my coat in it was. However, a hand grasping my forearm impeded these ideas. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey, you were good back there. No problem expressing what you think,” the host said. Ralph Waldo Emerson. A celebrity among the writing community right now. About 14 years my senior. And, well, as embarrassing as it was, my idol. My cat’s namesake was not entirely him, or so I told myself. He had stripes, the name was funny, it fit. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ah, yes thank you,” I said, averting my gaze, I felt an unwanted blush creeping up my cheeks at the praise. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ralph Waldo-” he began</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Emerson, I know. I am a english major at Harvard. Of course I know who you are,” shit, too blunt. But he just laughed. His hand dropped away from my arm to fall at his mouth to stifle the chuckles. I furrowed my brow, why was he laughing, what did I do.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You must be the one Lucy spoke of. Yes I suppose I see the similarity” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Um right. Yes,” it was very rare that I didn’t know what to say. But something about those eyes left me feeling vulnerable. Like he saw through you. As if he was searching your very essence, dissecting you for answers. They were the brown of leather couches with gold studs and old bound books. The scent of fresh coffee with hazelnut cream and letters with smudged ink. Those eyes behind rounded glasses were mesmerizing. And although I found it humiliating to look up due to his 5 inch height difference, I couldn’t look away anymore. His cream knit sweaters and blazers with patches on the arms, soft leather loafers, crisply folded pants, playfully thrown back chestnut hair, he was sharp, he was..ho- </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nope, nope, nope, he wasn’t. He was scholarly looking. Yes that’s it. I felt the unwarranted blush creeping back up my face as he smirked seeing me shamelessly checking him out. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Honestly get a grip. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Henry,” I said channeling back to my usual confidence, “Henry David Thoreau,” I added politely.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good to find someone else who goes by three names!” so maybe giving my middle name purpose wasn’t the only reason I went by three names...Whatever. “So did Lucy give you a hard time?” he asked with sympathetic but playful eyes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It wasn’t too bad. She blocked an exit and vaguely threatened me until I seemed to give in.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sound’s like her. Well, sorry for your troubles. She’s known for picking up cute troublesome ones in her own stubborn way.” Cute. Emerson called me cute. Why did that make me feel happy?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> I remembered how I would read his books and essays pouring over every comma and fabricate a connection between us. Two misunderstood writers at Harvard. It was a game of mine. To picture us getting coffee, meeting him on the street it was a schoolgirl’s lullaby before clicking out the light. My copy of Self-Reliance was tattered by now. The pages dog eared and scribbles in the margins. I idealized him, made him my hero, and here we were at a party, two english enthusiasts, and he was calling me cute.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I would hardly call myself cute or troublesome,” I countered. Silently cursing myself for bringing it up again. He had brought his hand to rest casually on his chin. My statement caused him to cocked an eyebrow. “I mean troublesome is hardly the word. My words are my truth and if that stirs other’s pots, that’s not my problem,” I decided to focus on the second half veering away from the ''cute”. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I like that attitude,” could this man stop with the praise. Really it was already hot in here with this scarf on. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Not the response I usually get” I admitted.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“People who speak their minds are often rejected by society. But to be great is to be misunderstood,” he spoke theatrically. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, read the book,” I retorted with a smile, a rare occurrence. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Did you now, and what did you think?” he readjusted his glasses and leaned closer.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“If we are to live a fulfilling life, our heads must be filled with our own thoughts. That is self-reliance,” I argued.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well now, I should jot that down,” he said playfully nudging my shoulders. I looked at the ground hot from the contact. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Plagiarism is wrong. I expect an honorable mention,” I nipped.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well of course! I am a professor, I know all about academic integrity!” he said clutching his hands across his chest dramatically. I rolled my eyes and grinned again. I was doing that more this conversation than the whole of this month combined. It was funny, after every fantasy of us meeting in my mind, they never went like this. Perhaps my mind just couldn’t think up anything as good.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey, what do you think about in that young head of yours?” He asked, poking my head reading the silence with concern.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I just,” how to phrase it, “didn’t think we would ever meet like this ya know. You’re kind of famous in case you’ve forgotten,” shit that sounded pathetic. He smiled almost wistfully.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Henry,” God, he was looking at me with those eyes. Those pools of hot chocolate after skating, pink cheeks and sore feet. The kind of warmth that went straight to your bones. And he was looking at me, no one else. “Look at me please,” my eyes were on his before he finished the sentence. “Please” sounded so weird coming from him. He didn’t have to beg, I knew if he asked me for something I would do it. He would ask me to die and in that moment I would. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Why? I hadn’t known this man for more than 20 minutes. But then again that was a lie. I had known him for all my life. Not in reality, but I knew a version that I had created. That Emerson was mine only. He existed for me and because of me. I made what I needed and projected that onto him. Because he was there. Because I needed it. I felt like I had known him for centuries. The amount of times we had met in my mind, ran into each other, hugged, they existed only in my imagination, and yet, I felt like old friends. This man was not the one I knew. He had far more depth, had stronger shoulders, real glasses, and those piercing eyes. This Emerson was not mine, but the one in my head paled in comparison.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How did you picture us meeting then, I’m human too, celebrity or not,” he sounded sad, like he was hurt I thought him unapproachable.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> How hadn’t I thought we’d meet, parking lots, elevators, Starbucks, you name it. Imagining my Emerson was a pastime. A daydream I looked forward to continuing everyday. I wrote and rewrote our story. I thought up sonnets and tragedies and sunday mornings. That was my private chapel and solace. But here was the real Emerson, in dress pants and burts bees chapstick. Nothing would be the same. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know,” I lied. I never lied. I always spoke my mind. That was my belief, but here I was, the very coward I criticized. I suppose it wasn’t a total lie. I had so many scenarios that not just one was how I imagined it would happen. I honestly didn’t know if it would at all. My eyes left his. I simply couldn't meet those pools of melted chocolate. They would bore into my soul and pull out my secrets on fishing hooks. Laying my wishes and lies out on a table like china for dinner.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well I’m glad we met Henry,”  he said, pulling me from my pity party. My eyes snapped to his, shocked by this statement. “I need some banter here and there. You have good ideas. We should discuss them more,” he added. I blinked squinted at him trying to make out if he was making fun, but there was only sincerity in those pale features. His sharp jaw contrasted with my baby face, his hair spikier, stature taller, how did the great Emerson find me an equal?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” I began smiling again, “I would like that.” And he smiled back. Leaning on the window behind him, grinning at me, time slowed. The scent of books and mint tea and laundry wafted off of him. For that moment my Emerson and the real thing became indistinguishable. We could have just met or we could have been lovers for millennia, it wouldn’t matter.  He was here, touching shoulders at a party saying he enjoyed my company. This moment was mine and mine alone. I would replay it across the years on lonelier nights. The definition of innocence and possibility. It was mindless chatter and wine around us. It was the crease in his turtle neck, it was the smudge on his glasses, it was the weight of my phone in my pocket, it was the freckle under his left eye, it was the scratches on the window frame, It was the tickle of hair I’d tucked behind my ear. It was serene. It was safe. It was mine. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Didn’t last of course. The woman who had opened the door for me originally came over to us and gave a quick peck on the cheek to Emerson. He put his hand on her waist. Oh. Oh she was his wife. It was a slap, remembering he was married. I always forget this fact in my imagination. But this was reality and he had a wedding ring. The golden glint of it burned my eyes and seared my skin. Pieces were falling into place. That’s how he knew Lucy, that’s why she answered the door, I didn’t like the puzzle it was making. She was thicker than her sister. Not fat, but not skinny either. She was in a black shirt and pearl necklace. She held his arm and looked at him lovingly. He returned the gaze. I felt like I was intruding in a way. As if I was not supposed to see this kind of unspoken affection displayed in only a look. I tugged on my scarf and stepped away from them. Emerson looked up suddenly, noticing my movement. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh hey, this is my wife, Ellen,” He introduced.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes I met him at the door, he said Lucy invited him,” She said. I felt as if I wasn’t there. I wanted it back. I wanted his full attention back. I wanted his eyes to rip into me and make a home there. I wanted to stare at him until I had memorized each eyelash. I wanted him to look at me. I felt as if this conversation was between them and not me. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah! You know Lucy,” he said with a sigh, “She was right, we do have a lot in common, it’s like talking to a younger version of me,” he added.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You flatter me Emerson, really. It’s nice to meet you Ellen, sorry for keeping your husband. You have been excellent hosts, but I really must get going now,” I said. Keep it cordial. Edge out. I could tell I was no longer relevant and had no more business at this event. I began walking away tugging my scarf on tighter, a nervous habit it would seem.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey, stay a while longer,” Emerson said, grabbing my hand again. Deja vu. He was looking at me again, but it wasn’t the same, his mind was elsewhere, his heart was elsewhere. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No really, I must go. Thank you for your banter, it was fun,” I wonder if I sounded a bit too sad because he dropped my hand and scratched the back of his head. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Right yeah, me too,” He responded</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“See ya around, I hope we meet again,” I said over my shoulder. I don’t think he knew how much I meant those words. His wife smiled at him as he walked back. He smiled too. And didn’t look back at me.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I tried to figure out where the goddamn bedroom was. I just needed to get out of this house. It was too loud. Too hot, too many people. I rubbed my temples, my pulse was through the roof, it was so stuffy. Eh fuck it that jacket could be replaced. I needed to be out of here. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The cold air slapped my face. It was pretty dark out but the streetlight illuminated the sidewalk just fine. It was so crisp and so quiet. Peaceful. But this was another kind of peace. There was the one I had felt inside, the tranquility and safety of another's presence, the warmth, the glow. And this was another kind of peace. The quiet walk back to my apartment in the dark. No noise except for the occasional car, cricket, or frat boy. It was calm, fresh, lonely. The price paid for quiet is the loss of company. It was chilly without my jacket. I hoped I hadn’t left anything in the pockets. Damn him honestly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As I walked home, I wondered, did his wife know he called me cute?</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>here we go</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>ohhoo more!!</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><span>I tried to go back to the way things were. I went to class, I went to my job as a cashier at a bookstore, I did schoolwork. But it was not the same. Emerson would appear in the back of my mind. As I wrote in my essays I would picture him in debate. As I reorganized the shelves I wondered which books he reads. It’s always funny to think about what kind of music the musician listens to. I knew somewhere in my mind that we would not meet again, but in the same breath, I looked for the sun glinting off those round glasses around every corner. I was losing my mind. </span> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But I had other things to worry about. Graduation was quickly approaching. Finals, goodbyes, and of course, job and living hunts. I figured I could keep the bookstore job, maybe pick up something on the side to afford an apartment. But that meant, ugh roommates. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>People coming home at different hours, leaving dishes in the sink, touching my cat, messing with the temperature. Ew, but in this economy there weren’t that many other options. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>On a similar note, there weren’t all that many goodbyes to be said. I had...minimal friends.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> Ok, I had no friends. Whether it was my intense gaze or my cold demeanor, or my cocky attitude, whatever it was something seemed to scare people off. People didn’t approach me or if they did, they didn’t stick around. So many times I had been told to “lighten up a bit” or “smile more” or “let loose”. However, I just thought if they were meant to be my friend I wouldn't have to pretend to be someone I’m not around them. Maybe my expectations were too high. I had just learned to manage on my own. Friday nights at home with leftover chicken and a plastic fork taken from the cafeteria wasn’t terrible. I had always been just fine. Or at least I thought I was. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Picturing my Emerson in the quiet confines of my house just wasn’t enough anymore. It was too flimsy now that I had met the real thing. It didn’t measure up. Didn’t have the same mannerisms, My Emerson didn’t cock his eyebrow as high and his posture was too rigid when we talked, his lips were too thin, it didn’t have the same scent of early Saturday mornings at your childhood home. It didn’t have the same faint scar on its arm. I had tasted the real Emerson and there was no going back.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> To say I was in over my head way too fast was an understatement. I sighed and shook myself from being a lovesick girl for long enough to wallow in my own brokenness as I browsed on Zillow.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My cap and gown were black and red, not a very flattering color combination on me. My pale skin and puppy brown hair were far too soft for the obsidian colors. They fit as well as they needed to. My parents were nowhere to be seen in the crowd, unfortunately but unsurprisingly. However, my brother, John, was standing there towering over everyone else. His black suit fit him perfectly on the other hand. The gold cufflinks gleaming and his tie had little books on it. Classic John. Named after my father, a stationary store worker back at home. I saw that neither Helen nor Sophia showed up. It was alright, I would take what I could get. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey little brother, you excited?” he asked playfully, ruffling my hair. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You seem to be at least. Nice tie,” I responded.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Why thank you, Alice picked it out for me. You look so grown up in those robes. I want a picture,” he said, pulling me close and taking out his phone. The sun burned my eyes as I tried to smile for the selfie he was taking. He had to bend down to be in the shot with me but it was fine, he would be happy with it no matter what. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My brother had the same energy as me but the opposite vibe. We were both enthusiastic and talked a lot, but my conversation tended to be more accusatory, he was a people person if there ever was one. Where I failed in making friends he made up for in ten folds. Where he lacked in confrontation I could step in whenever. We completed each other like that. He was the only person in my family who ever came to my events or gave me hugs or read my writing, or, as it would seem, showed up to my college graduation. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His girlfriend of right now was Alice. I say that because he had a new on</span>
  <span>e every 6 months, like clockwork. Maybe that was one way we were similar. We always had to keep moving. The past was too dusty and stagnation was too restricting. Alice seemed nice enough the one time I met her, she had striking green eyes and fluffy blonde hair. Maybe John and I had similar tastes because we both had our eyes on round glasses. Too bad Alice only 2 months left.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My brother was also the only one who knew I was gay. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He had caught me in our shed behind the house making out with a cute brunette from baseball. Marcus, my first experiment. Sloppy, messy, short-lived, but so crucial. I remember staring at John like a deer caught in headlights before he just cleared his throat and shut the door going back to the house. It killed the mood so Marcus went home. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I had been scared he would out me to Mother and Father but he just held me as I shook violently in fear of the person I was, </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s for you to tell, not me little brother,” he reassured, “That’s your truth. I know people may give you shit about it because it’s different from theirs, but don’t worry about them," he stroked my hair lightly, "Pick your head up Hen, no ones gonna hurt you with me around. If that short ass baseball player breaks my brother’s heart I’ll break his face. I promise.” I had never adored my brother more until right then. I knew I was lucky to have someone like him, not everyone did. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I had almost no experience after that. Nothing...serious at least. After I became afraid of my own inexperience and avoided the subject all together. John always pestered me to go on an app, but that just seemed desperate and shady. I was always so in control and so confident and assertive in social situations, but that made me afraid they would make me “take charge” and I didn’t know how. There were just some things I didn’t feel...confident in...if you’re getting my gist. Logistics were hazy I guess. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>John still gives me looks when Mother pesters me as to why I’ve never brought a woman home, as if curious as to how I would play it off. He always seemed ready to jump into action with a clever defense. I could handle myself though.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> I knew my parents would not hate me per se if they knew my sexuality, but they would be disappointed. That they wouldn’t get the same perfect family photo. That empty gold frame waiting for a picture of a happy woman in white. That frame would never be filled. I would leave that, and I suppose by extension them, empty. Maybe they would be mad that I was not who they had constructed me to be. Who they had painstakingly built piece by piece. They had molded me like puddy, pulled at my arms and cut off my hair wrapped me in bandages and thrown me into the world. Ignorance was bliss in this case. For both parties. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey guess who’s speaking,” John said with a mischievous grin elbowing my side, “that writer you love, Ralph Waldo Emerald, no Emersan no em-” he struggled to read the program, trying it from different distances. Honestly he needed his glasses. Always complaining that the turtle-shell pattern didn’t match his shoes or something. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Emerson?!” I asked with mild panic. No, that was not possible. He was here, now, speaking at MY graduation. I wasn’t ready to face him, to see him again so soon, I might explode. But at the same time I wanted to see him so bad my chest clenched and I felt my body searching for him like a compass needle and he was the northern magnetic pull. Reaching out, pulsing, racing. Where?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah that guy. Emerson,” he agreed, confused by my evident panic. I whipped my head around to the stage trying to catch a glimpse of him. And on the stage, in gorgeous red robes that spilled off his tall stature like crimson ambrosia or the deep velvet curtains at the most enthralling, beautiful opera, the kind that left you with wet eyes and bleeding ears, was Emerson. His classic round glasses reflected making them glint in a divine light.  He sat with one leg bent and the foot leaning on his thigh, in a nonchalant, casual way, checking his phone. The wind rumpled his coffee bean colored hair and his polished black shoes shone in the sunlight of May. He was ethereal. And I was shook.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So there we were. Speeches were given, pictures were taken, the usual. When that man got on stage to speak, every fiber of my being focused on him. Every syllable he spoke reverberated within my soul ricocheting off my ribs and hammering against my skull. The elegant curve and lily of the letters swirled and danced with my mind. My eyes were glued to his perfect lips. That soft cupid’s bow and plump pink that I knew probably tasted like pear coconut chapstick. They enunciated the gospel that spilled forth. It trickled and traveled from his tongue through the isles straight to me. I was once again reminded not only of his otherworldly beauty, but his literary prowess. All I could think as everyone clapped and jeered was, that’s my Emerson, way to go. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>However, I knew he was not mine. He belonged to the world, the universe. To God and Ellen. He was to me as much of a stranger to everyone else in the crowd. Another hopeless admirer. But it sure was nice to pretend. Every time his nimble, boney fingers went to push up his glasses as they drooped down his sweaty nose, I was transfixed.  The grace, elegance portrayed in such a simple gesture. Those fingers could conduct orchestras or convict murderers or write sonnets. I wanted to memorize those hands. The ones that genius spilled forth from. I wanted to know every rise and fall, scars and freckles. I wanted to hold it so tightly it would become a part of me, so he would stay with me forever. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But his speech ended and the rest of us dewy-eyed aspiring academics slapped until we had calluses on our hands. And so diplomas went out. Me and John placed bets on the number of people named “John” or “Henry” graduating. He won how many henrys and I won Johns. Funny how that works. We all think or names are so unique because they belong to a unique soul. Your name is what falls from the lips of lovers, mothers, and priests. This is what brands the physical form, and yet, there were 20 other Henrys. My brethren in title and aspiration. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The heat of May beat down upon my back as I sweat through my dress shirt. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Henry Thoreau,” the dean announced. Where’s the David I wondered silently. I could hear John’s whooping and hollering over anyone else. I shook my head and chuckled as his tall form and flailing arms stood out from the stoic parents among him. I shook hands, firmly I might add, I was very proud of my handshake. I nodded and walked off. As I walked I spared a glance at the idol of my affections as he sat at the back of the stage. Our eyes met and I swear to God I thought I had imagined it, a wink. My eyes must have gone wide and I almost (Re. definitely) tripped a bit on the stairs down. To preserve dignity on the way back, I filed it away to overthink later. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As I recently turned 22 I was now allowed into the sacred bro palace of college kids drowning their 70 averages in draft beer and the ambiance of ‘Brad being bad at darts’. Though not my scene. If I was going to get hammered it would be with a bottle of white wine on my bathroom floor like a person with a shred of class. But it was Graduation and John can be persuasive. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The place, Mary’s Bar and Tavern, was packed. Every inch of space was occupied with either a cup or a person. The music was loud and I felt like I was 10 and cowering behind John at a party again. Tugging on his sleeve and stuttering at strangers. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>We walked in and John set out on his mission to get us drinks. As I surveyed the rest of the place from my perch at a bar stool with a peeling leather seat. My nose was burnt with the smell of sweat and the table was sticky. Loose peanuts littered the countertop and I clasped my hands in my lap. I looked around warrily feeling horribly out of place. Like that one neon green vase in aunt Rosa’s bathroom. My eyes scanned the bar lazily hoping to catch sight of John, but were met with a much more pleasant sight.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Emerson. He was here, in a crappy college bar. His white dress shirt was rolled up revealing beautiful tanned, muscular forearms. The top few buttons had been undone revealing a sinful amount of chest. Color rose to my cheeks and I couldn’t look away. The tantalizing collar bone that peaked out of the rumpled collar. And his hands, oh god his hands. The long fingers illustrated the story he was telling. Acting out every motion. They told a story behind it like the mime and the poet. Those goddamn hands. The thick palm and sturdy grip on his glass of gin and tonic. Light but firm. Those hands wrote the masterful pieces I had poured over until late hours in the night. Those hands sculpted sonnets and temples. My tattered copy of Self- Reliance and his many poems had annotations and dog ears and faded covers from their travels. Through sunlight and downpour and backpacks and suitcases. I wanted those hands to dig bruises into my hips and then sweep away the pain of the inky blots with soft caresses like I too as a piece of art. Calloused from years of holding pens and marked with paper cuts and ink stains. I wanted those hands wrapped around- </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yo Im backkkkk,” John yelled, shaking me from my impure thoughts, “Hey you looking a little red, you good? You’re not sick right? We can go if you feel feverish..” Classic John always fussing. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No no, I’m good, we can stay” I squeaked, snatching the scotch from his hands and taking a swig perhaps a bit too fast. I coughed as the taste burnt my throat. John eyed me suspiciously but didn’t ask further questions. He leaned on the counter beside me sipping a Bud Light, really no class. We sat in uncomfortable silence. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Wow that dude just keeps popping up huh,” he said pointing at Emerson hoping to break the tension. He could have talked about literally ANYTHING else. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Uh- um I hadn’t even noticed huh,” wow smooth Henry. The blush that must have dawned my cheeks as I my eyes found him and his lazy white shirt which I had fantasized about wearing on a sunday morning the sleeves flopping over my hands only moments ago. John gave me a pointed and confused look. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Really?...” he asked, nudging me shoulder with a playful grin. Shit</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes.” I said gathering myself together and turning to face him. But we didn’t have time to get into it because the object of my affections tapped me on the shoulder lightly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Heya Henry,” Emerson said in my ear so it could be heard over the noise of the crowd. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>yeah it gets worse.<br/>This is giving me 2017 Hamilton fanfic vibes and I Hate It<br/>btw I was just mad at my dad for the pronouns thing and so it was just a rant</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>